


living like your dying (isn't living at all)

by noctiphany



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruises, Daddy Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Painslut, Subspace, slight dubcon, unhinged Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiphany/pseuds/noctiphany
Summary: “Yeah no, this is messed up,” Slade says, and pulls the gun away, holstering it back on his hip.Tim sighs.





	living like your dying (isn't living at all)

**Author's Note:**

> Who knows what the fuck this is. 
> 
> > I really like unhinged Tim  
> > I really like Deathstroke  
> > boom  
> > filth
> 
> inspired by ao3 user [BlackBat09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09)

“Mr. Wilson,” Tim says, sitting behind his desk finishing up an email as Deathstroke stands in the center of the room, gun trained on him. The little red dot on Tim’s chest is beginning to annoy him. “Can I interest you in a coffee? It’s my personal stash, not the motor oil they serve in the company break room.” 

“Wayne,” Slade says. “Or Drake. Whatever you’re going by these days. What part of having a gun pointed at you isn’t clicking here?”

“Nothing’s clicked so far,” Tim mumbles distractedly. “Or I wouldn’t be still finishing this email, would I?”

He hits send, then snaps the laptop closed and looks up at Slade. The gun is still trained on him, but he looks, at least, a little unnerved.

“You’re here to kill me,” Tim says. “You’re a mercenary, it’s not that difficult to understand. Someone hired you to take me out. Probably competition. Maybe my ex-step mother. Maybe that girl I dated in high school and broke up with via text because I didn’t know I was gay yet. Who knows. Who  _ cares.” _

Then he gets up from his desk and stalks toward Deathstroke, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his suit jacket, leans forward until the barrel of the gun presses into the center of his forehead.

“I have to meet with shareholders in an hour,” Tim murmurs, closing his eyes. “You’ll be doing me a favor.”

“Yeah no, this is messed up,” Slade says, and pulls the gun away, holstering it back on his hip.

Tim sighs.

  
  


: : :

  
  


He’s better as Red Robin. Bullets flying through his hair, jumping from rooftops, cheating death, fighting ninja assassins. This he can deal with. 

Not paperwork. Not thousands upon thousands of useless emails to people he hates. Not wearing some suit and tie and walking around all day pretending he’s a person, pretending he’s  _ normal. _

No, this is where he belongs. Getting his face smashed in by Deathstroke, bleeding all over the top of a roof.

Tim laughs when he hears his nose break for the tenth time, rolls over and looks up at the night sky, or what he can see of it from all the light pollution. Deathstroke hovers over him, gun pointed down at Tim’s face.

Deathstroke can’t see it, but behind the lenses Tim rolls his eyes.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Tim mutters and Slade just narrows his eyes and shakes his head.

“You’re not right, kid,” he says and Tim just laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

  
  


: : :

  
  


“I think I want to work with you,” Tim says the next time they run into each other -- which isn’t so much running into each other as it is Tim using NASA technology to track Slade down and break into his safe house. “No. I mean, train with you. I want you to train me. I’ll pay you.” 

Slade, in the middle of a frozen dinner, tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow. “Daddy know?”

“Daddy,” Tim says dryly. “Doesn’t know I exist. Yes or no, Slade.”

Deathstroke considers him for a moment, then shrugs with one shoulder. “Sure, kid,” he says. “I assume you can find my payment information since you found --”

“Already wired,” Tim says. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  
  


: : : 

  
  


They train daily, for weeks. Slade is merciless, never giving an inch. It’s exactly what Tim needs. Every day he has new bruises, pain that runs bone deep and never lets him forget about it. It’s exactly what he needs. 

In the middle of sending email after email, Tim stops to press his thumb into the bruise on his ribs.

_ Fuck,  _ he gasps under his breath, feeling like the air was just knocked out of him. Tears spring to his eyes and the memory of how it happened flashes through his mind, Slade’s boot slamming into the side of him when Tim was too slow. The pain reminds him of how it happened, but what Tim really remembers is Slade standing over him after, holding his hand out to help Tim up.  

_ I know you’re in a fuck ton of pain right now, but you did real good today, kid. _

Tim jerks off hard and quick in the ensuite bathroom in his office, the corner of the sink digging into the bruise on his ribs as he comes.

  
  


: : :

  
  


“Let me see,” Slade says the next time, reaching for Tim’s shirt to pull it up and survey the damage. 

Tim hisses and shoves him away, scowling as Slade laughs.

“We’re not doing shit until you show me how it looks.”

“Fine,” Tim mutters, slipping his t-shirt off over his head. His entire right side is painted in mottled blues, purples, and some hints of yellow. It’s healing, but it’s slow going.

Slade lets out a low, long whistle. “Baby bird bruises easy, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Tim snaps and Slade just ignores him, moves closer to get a better look.

“You sure nothing’s broken?” He asks, reaching out to the touch the spot where he caught him with his foot and Tim tries not to be a baby this time, but fuck, it hurts. It hurts  _ good,  _ that’s the problem. “Christ, you can’t even stand that much? You should get it x-rayed just to make sure. I’m not going to train with you until you --”

“Quit being a pussy, Slade,” Tim says, panic rising in him like a volcanic eruption. He can’t stop now. He can’t give this up. Deathstroke can’t just fucking  _ leave -- _ “I can handle it.”

“Kid, your breathing and your pulse sped up a ridiculous amount and my fingers barely brushed your skin.”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “I like it.”

Slade narrows his eyes at him, disbelieving.

“I like the pain,” Tim says, like he’s explaining something to a third grader. “I like that it hurts. I like that I can’t even move during the day without pain shooting up the entire right side of my body and reminding me of what happens when I'm not good enough. I’m not severely injured. I don’t need an x-ray, Slade. I’m just fucked up.”

Tim doesn’t know what he expected after a declaration like that. Laughter. Disgust. Nasty jokes about Bruce and his boys, insults about Tim’s childhood. Anything along those lines, maybe.

What he doesn’t expect is for Slade to remove his mask entirely and look down at him, to cup Tim’s face in one of his hands and say, “Who fucking told you you weren’t good enough?”

Tim tries not to cry. He manages to hold back the sobs that he can feel himself shaking with already, but he can’t prevent the tears that well in his eyes, tries to blink them away but some of them end up falling down his cheeks anyway.

Tim  _ hates _ this. Hates crying in front of people, hates crying at  _ all,  _ but especially in front of Slade. It’s weak weak  _ weak _ and he can’t fucking stand it. He hates himself even more for not being able to stop it, for letting Slade see him like this. He has to get the upper hand back somehow now, he has to remind Slade that he’s  _ not  _ fucking weak, that he can handle himself.

“Haven’t you already guessed?” Tim smirks, lowering himself to his knees and reaching for Slade’s pants. “I’ve got Daddy issues.”

“Shit, kid,” Slade hisses as Tim takes him into his mouth. He’s bigger than Tim had imagined, a  _ lot _ bigger, but Tim likes that. Likes a challenge, another chance to prove himself. He paces himself, working his jaw open, taking a little bit more of Slade’s cock each time. Even after all that, after about twenty or thirty minutes of working on it, he still can only take half of his cock.

It’s humiliating. It’s  _ infuriating.  _ He can’t even do this right.  _ This.  _ He can’t even --

“Fuck, that’s so good.” Tim’s thoughts are interrupted by Slade’s words, by the fingers twisting in his hair. “Jesus Christ, look at you, boy. Look at your fucking mouth, all stretched around me. You should see yourself. Look like a perfect little whore down there on your knees for me.”

Tim’s eyes flutter closed and he moans around Slade’s cock, feeling his own twitch and spill precome in his boxers.

“--take it so good, look at you,” Slade continues, rocking his hips a little now, fucking his cock into Tim’s mouth instead of letting Tim control the pace. It makes Tim gag every time he does it, but Slade doesn’t seem to mind and Tim fucking  _ loves _ it. Slade’s hand in his hair, pulling it slightly, his cock cutting off his breath supply, knees aching from being on the cold, concrete floor, it’s perfect. Like this, every inch of his body in discomfort and pain, he can’t think about anything else. He’s not going anywhere in his head, the cave or the manor or school or home, he’s just here. On his knees. Mouth filled with Slade Wilson’s cock.

The harder Slade rocks into his mouth, the more Tim drifts. It’s fine. He trusts Slade. He shouldn't, probably, but he does. For this, he does. Because this is what Tim needs right now and Slade’s the only one who can give it to him. And it’s fucking beautiful. It’s quiet, just a light buzzing sound in his ears, and everything is hazy and soft around the edges. His usual thoughts try to come to him, but it’s like they’re too slippery to hold onto. There’s nothing to worry about here, nothing to do except be a hole for Slade to fuck.

  
  


: : :

  
  


Tim doesn’t pass out, he just sort of  _ zones _ out. He knows Slade came because he can taste it, thick and bitter and salty on the back of his tongue. He knows  _ he _ came because he can feel it, sticky and wet and gross, in his shorts. He can’t remember if he jerked himself off or if Slade did it. He kind of wishes he could. 

“Drink this,” Slade says, pushing a bottle of water at his lips. Tim frowns, eyebrows drawing together, and wants to tell him to fuck off, that he can fucking drink on his own, but he doesn’t. He lets Deathstroke hold the bottle to his mouth and let Tim sip on it as much as he needs to.

Then, because he’s literally laying on the floor, Slade bends down and scoops him up off of it. 

_ I can fucking walk,  _ Tim doesn’t say. He thinks about it, but doesn’t. One, because he’s actually not certain of that. His legs feel still feel a bit like tingly jello. And two, this isn’t bad. Slade’s arms are ridiculous, huge and thick and his chest is hard as a rock and there’s just something really nice about being carried by him. Jesus Christ, he is so fucked up.

This time, Tim does pass out. Somewhere between Slade carrying him upstairs and being dumped onto a bed with too many pillows on it.

When he wakes up, Slade is gone, but there’s a bottle of painkillers next to the bed and an unread message from Slade on his phone.

_ Got a job. Will let you know when I’m back in town. _

_ D _

Tim turns his phone off, swallows the pills dry, then pulls the covers back over his head and goes back to sleep.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in months.


End file.
